


Model Citizens

by cognomen



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Retail, Christmas, Complete, Live Models, M/M, Meet-Cute, gratuitous levels of retail bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-23 13:48:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10720551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen
Summary: “You’ll only be with us for November and December,” the interviewer says, looking the sort of beleagured put-together that Galahad finds only in the ranks of lifelong retail management.He’s not sure if its really a question.“I applied for a seasonal position,” He says. “I’m working on my masters degree as a full time student.”She looks up at him, measuring the picture presented. Galahad is dressed well, part of his key to success as a student. He’d thrown away his T-shirts and jeans, but refused to cut his hair any shorter.-In which Galahad and Tristan are live models for the holiday season for Rival store brands; but retail hell makes allies of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Quedarius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quedarius/gifts).



> This is for Q, who helped me generate the idea years ago. Also, I know Hollister and Abercrombie are owned by the same company, but Galahad does not.

Galahad only signs with the retail store over Christmas because he can’t justify flying all the way back to California to visit his mother’s empty house.

It’s graduate school he’s paying for now anyway, and her empty nest syndrome has evolved. This year, she’s on a cruise in the Bahamas. Gal hopes she has a wonderful time even as he embraces the idea of working on his thesis while making minimum wage at a temp position in the mall.

He applies to upscale clothing stores -the mall itself seems to cater to the affluent old-rich in the state. It’s a tiny one - a scrap of land no bigger than a postage stamp with the vital history and proximity to the ocean that gave it a ridiculous population of rich, old-money sorts.

After a week, he has a few calls. Galahad is not quite the usual desperate-for-a-foot-in-the-door sixteen year old worker, but he remembers being one. He has a list of sterling references to span the length of his post high-school career, albeit all temporary.

“You’ll only be with us for November and December,” the interviewer says, looking the sort of beleaguered put-together that Galahad finds only in the ranks of lifelong retail management.

He’s not sure if its really a question.

“I applied for a seasonal position,” He says. “I’m working on my masters degree as a full time student.”

She looks up at him, measuring the picture presented. Galahad is dressed well, part of his key to success as a student. He’d thrown away his T-shirts and jeans, but refused to cut his hair any shorter.

He can tell she likes what she sees; how put together he looks. He’d turned up for the interview in brand-loyal clothing.

“It won’t be worth it to train you on the POS, but I have a thought. Have you ever considered live modeling?” 

The idea equally intrigues and repulses him.

-

In the end he agrees. It’s not a skilled position but it pays the same as the less interesting ones. He’s qualified for it with his bachelor’s degree. The instructions are simple; he arrives on time, puts on the branded clothes provided for him and sprays on a fresh splash of So Cal, and stands either at the front on the store’s porch facade with a group of other beautiful - often shirtless - men, or in the display window between two plastic white men with no heads (nonsensically, hats are tucked over their necks) and tries to to feel more interesting than they are.

His paychecks are good. He mostly gets left in peace. Occasionally, a young woman gets handsy or an older housewife gets bold and brightens her own day by slipping Galahad a number like she’s doing him a favor.

He does his best to ignore this; it’s a different sort of degradation than enraged middle-fifties white women visit on the cashiers over sales or sizes or the clearly stated return policy not supporting their clearance reselling schemes.

The trouble comes when the massive rival menswear store across the way ramps up their game in response. Galahad works - temporarily - for the austere and venerable Hollister, but just across the lush mall parkway beyond the fountains full of a college tuitions worth of children’s pennies, beyond the overly trimmed bushes that Galahad can’t tell if they’re alive and screaming for a natural form or as plastic as the smile he wears, is an Abercrombie.

If possible, it has an even bigger, more foreboding facade.

And in the first week of December, their own model appears.

At first, Galahad is repulsed. The man has a sort of high-cheekboned European look that appeals to the sort of ragged-chic hipsters that shop at Abercrombie. Long haired without any idea of how to use a brush or a hair product. His beard, too, is unkempt and rough.

From afar, Galahad measures him once and decides he can’t stand the man. It’s a shame he has to look directly at him for eight hours every time he’s on shift.

“Abercrombie got a live model too,” He informs his manager after shift,a s het urns over the bundle of clothes he’d been wearing. He finds himself irrationally angry about watching the other man slouch for a good deal of his shift, chewing his fingernails and making sultry expressions at passers-by. Never once had he looked at Galahad. 

“They do every year,” his manager - Lance - says, straightening the third gray cardigan he’s worn this week to get it hanging just _so_ on his body. “That’s why we hired you so early this year.”

For some reason, this petty retail one-upsmanship gets under Galahad’s skin. He thinks it has very little to do competitive retail strategies. More, he’s slightly insulted that having seen what the competition offered, Abercombie had fielded such a weak-seeming competitor.

Then, Galahad goes home and forgets about it. He has a paper to work on, sources to read. With a name straight out of legend (for which he thanks his single mother at the end of every phone call if only silently and to himself) he’d felt almost a compulsion to go into the field of classical literature. To himself, at times, he admits that he’ll have to leave his options in continuing retail open with such a specialized degree.

Two days pass, Tuesday and Wednesday, his weekend in the middle of the week. He calls home, stabs out two pages of his paper with his index fingers, and wonders as he does so what he can possibly say about Chaucer’s brief mention of Arthur that hasn’t already been said.

Probably nothing. He’s just got to find his way to say the things about Chaucer that he has to say, even though they’ve already been said. His own unique combination to the puzzle. It’s not very inspiring.

Somewhere between his third sentence and his fourth cup of coffee, Galahad’s mind wander to the insolent sulking of his adversary and it irritates him enough that when his cell phone rings and his brother’s name appears, he’s glad for the distraction.

“I can leave work behind this year,” he tells Wayne on the phone.

“So many difficult conundrums,” his brother says. “Which way to pose, how hard to pout.”

“It’s not like that,” Galahad grunts.

“You should have gone on the cruise,” Wayne says. “I’m sure mom would have loved to have you along.”

“I’m not sure the ‘senior singles’ cruise is _really_ -” Galahad starts to protest, but Wayne is already laughing at him. 

“You won’t be dating until you’re a senior anyway, little brother. Head it off at the pass,” he suggests, clearly greatly enjoying Galahad’s protest.

“Relax, I know,” Wayne assures, once he’s had his fun. “College first. What are your plans for Christmas?”

His voice comes over the line with a little more concern now. “You’re too skinny already to miss a great big meal.”

“I can feed myself,” Galahad sighs. “Don’t worry, I’ll do what I did for thanksgiving - there’s a place with a blue plate special near campus.”

“Leave a good tip,” Gawain says. “It could be you waiting tables someday.”

“I’ll leave a better one if they don’t play any Christmas music,” Galahad says, wryly. He adds, “Not all of us can be military men, Wayne.”

“Even fewer of us can be military men with a name like ‘Gawain’,” his brother says. “Call me again soon, Gal, alright?” 

Galahad promises. With reluctance, he returns to his paper.

-

He decides, in the third hour of his next shift, that if he never hears ‘Santa Baby’ again, it’ll be too soon. While he watches Abercrombie’s model make sultry faces at the passers-by and everybody from Dolly Parton to Michael Buble to the original Eartha Kitt version - sings about what ridiculous things they expect to find under their Christmas Tree. Eartha is the best of a bad bunch, in Galahad’s opinion.

Galahad is modeling winterwear today, a long coat and a red scarf that makes him feel like a greeting card, or that incestuous Folgers commercial. At least there aren’t any handsy housewives this way. Across the mall the other model is slouching an waiting. He has - Galahad sees - a very nice body. Long and lanky to match the casual hair, done up in sloppy braids and half a ponytail today. It suits his intense, angular face.

And, Galahad sees, with an internal pang of jealousy - he’s attracted a crowd. Women fawn over Abercrombie’s model, touching and flirting, and he eats it up - seems to genuinely _enjoy_ being treated like a very tasty meal, to be devoured visually and savored. Galahad watches a woman trace her palm over his bare stomach, back and forth. The way his eyes fix on her like she is the only other person in the world. It manages to feel, event o him in his uninvolved place - that he’s intruded on the deepest intimacy. 

He can feel himself blushing and turns away. He knows its stupid, that none of it is real enough to be scandalous. It’s an image to be bought and sold, some kind of brand experience. After a few moments, the woman leaves - Galahad sees that she departs with two large bags of clothes.

“Jeez, look at him,” Lance says. “They had the same guy last year, he must be good.”

Galahad adjusts his scarf, feeling warm in the well-lit window. “I wonder what it is?”

“Machismo,” Lance says, cryptically, folding shirts on the table of polos back into perfect squares with the fold card. “All that animal magnetism. If we could bottle it, it’d sell way better than So Cal. Plus, he has an accent.”

Galahad chuckles. “Must be _some_ accent.”

“I don’t get it either,” Lance says. “Plus, I thought Abercrombie had some kind of ‘fresh meat’ policy for their models where they’re supposed to hire new ones every year.”

“Huh,” Galahad says. He tilts his chin prettily with as much inviting allure as he can manage at a group of window shopping teenagers and feels a vicrtorious (immature) twinge when they come in.

Then, it’s a game - Galahad keeps three tallies in his head - if he beats Abercrombie in luring groups of girls he’ll forget all about machismo. So he tallies his success and Abercrombie’s and times it all against repetitions of ‘I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas’ while thinking that was a song that barely applies to New England. He’s been here for all of his college years and has yet to experience a winter where it wasn’t white from mid-November to Middlemarch, and forget all the ‘in like a lion out like a lamb’ ideas.

“Gal,” Lance’s voice repeats, and Galahad realizes he’s spaced out. “Lunch break. Pull yourself back to earth.”

“Sorry,” Galahad says sheepishly. He steps down out of the window box, tagging the headless mannequins in. 

“He got to you, too, huh?” Lance teased - it was the first time he’d seen the assistant manager make a joke. Galahad laughs nervously.

“I won’t come back with any competitor’s clothes,” Galahad promises.

He leaves his coat and the scarf behind in the break room and sets a timer on his watch, checking his e-mails and notifications as he walks to the food court. Here, it’s a step above the usual McDonald’s-Taco Bell - Chinese Food - Froyo places. There’a local small-business wrap stand that sells him an excellent organic caesar wrap for more than he made in the last hour that he worked. It is, at least, satisfying.

His Instagram feed shows him a few pictures of the blue Bahamas ocean, sand and sun, intermixed with photos of Wayne and his kids, sledding or building snowmen. It’s all very picturesque. Galahad snaps as artistic a picture of he can of his half-eaten lunch on the food court table and uploads it to his timeline.

A friend immediately likes it, adding - ‘he lives!’ to the comments. It’s been a while since he uploaded anything, he guesses.

Someone sits at the table across from Galahad, scraping the chair over the floor as he pulls it out and turns it around backwards before sitting down heavily. Galahad looks up, about to protest - and sees the angular, intense face of his rival, sitting down with a cup of expensive fancied-up coffee.

“Hey!” Galahad protests.

“You should add a filter,” Abercrombie says. He’s still not wearing a shirt. “Or at least tag it ‘no filter’.”

For a second, Galahad is lost - he has no idea what Abercrombie is talking about. Something in his expression must give this away.

“Your sandwich photo,” Abercrombie clarifies.

“I’m sorry?” Galahad manages.

“I am too,” Abercrombie says, grinning wolfishly at Galahad. He seems to have many very-sharp teeth. “Your composition isn’t very good.”

“It’s a cell phone photo,” Galahad says defensively, “of a sandwich.” 

“It is,” Abercrombie says. “But that doesn’t have to automatically mean it’s a bad picture.”

Galahad supposes it doesn’t, but can’t get why it matters enough to have a conversation about. Lance was right, though - there is an exotic accent to go with the exotic looks. _And no manners._

“Can I help you with something?” Galahad tries, while Abercrombie grins at him like a Cheshire cat in some Tim Burton movie. 

“Are you afraid to be seen consorting with the enemy?” Abercrombie wonders. 

“It’s retail, not war,” Galahad says mildly. “Just know I won’t give you any trade secrets.”

“What about next week’s sales ad?” his rival wonders, but Galahad can tell it’s a joke. He doesn’t look like the sort to wear the brand outside of work hours.

“Try the newspaper,” Galahad says. 

Abercrombie wrinkles his nose in a brief snarl of disgust. “Print is a dead medium.”

“But Instagram is an art?” Galahad asks. 

“Photography,” Abercrombie corrects.

“It’s a wonder they even need that anymore with Photoshop,” Galahad says, knowing he’s baiting his opponent - it’s only fair. Abercrombie had started the conversation by baiting him.

“There’s nothing to work with unless you have a base photo,” Abercrombie says, smugly.

Just like that, without ever asking or intending to ask, Galahad knows what Abercrombie does for a living, at least outside of live modeling for Abercrombie and Fitch. He’s about to tell him where to shove his photography tips when his watch goes off. Galahad picks up his tray and half-eaten sandwich and slides the leftovers into the trash, aware of his rival’s eyes on him as he leaves.

It’s quite the image, the man’s curved lips wrapped around a straw and smiling as he sucked up creamy coffee. Galahad refuses to look at the other window for the rest of his shift.  
-


	2. Chapter 2

The next day Galahad brings a bag lunch and eats in the tiny employee break closet, careful not to get crumbs or sauce on himself as he works in three word bursts on his report. 

_What can I possibly say?_

The idle question turns over in his thoughts and then applies itself nonsensically to yesterday’s lunch. 

_What did that guy - Abercrombie’s photographer-model - want from me?_

The question probably has no answer. What does it matter? Maybe it’s just some form of - model hazing. Or, Galahad allows with begrudging sympathy, that maybe he was only trying to make a friend, in a very clumsy and off-putting manner. 

That should hardly be Gal’s problem. Nor should he let it drive him away from his lunch. After all, it’s hardly a playground dispute. They are both adults.

Today, Friday, Galahad is out front with two other models, dressed identically. Perhaps there’s some kind of reason for this, but Galahad doesn’t care enough to ask. Across the mall, Abercrombie is pretty shamelessly modeling either a small black pair of underwear or a swimsuit (in December) under a wide open bathrobe in bright colors that hardly seem suited to the weather. 

_Isn’t he cold?_ Galahad wonders. The mall promenade is heated, of course, but - _why am I worried about it?_

Abercrombie is holding court again, and Galahad is well occupied, also. He gets all variety of questions about his ensemble and a variety of propositions - as well as both of his coworkers, in a variety of racy configurations that’s somewhere between concerning and flattering. 

Galahad takes most of it with a grain of salt. But whenever he looks up, he finds Abercrombie’s eyes on him, focused. 

It’s the same look he’d seen between the man and his targets earlier. Something intense and private even though they’re both currently public domain. Galahad can feel himself blush. He looks away, but finds his gaze returning again through some magnetism.

“Do you think they’ll try and make us wear something like that?” Galahad’s co-worker Boris wonders.

“You’d scare the customers away,” the other model, Dag, teases Boris with a grin.

“Stuff it, Dag,” Boris shoots back at him. “You’d bulge out over your shorts, too.”

Dag pats his own belly and gives Galahad a wink. “Normal shoppers couldn’t handle what I keep under my shirt.”

“A pregnancy,” Boris says, with such flat and perfect delivery that Galahad chuckles.

“He’s no match for us,” Dag assures them both. “But between you and me, Gal, he’s been looking at you all afternoon. Have you been sleeping with the enemy?”

“If not, would you like to be?” Boris wonders, grinning at his own cleverness.

“I think he’s mad that I blew him off at lunch,” Galahad says. “He was trying to tell me he’s a photographer, I guess.”

“Huh,” Boris says, shifting into a new pose that’s not the most enticing thing Galahad’s ever seen. “Well, none of us are full-time models.”

“You’re not a full-time anything,” Dag replies.

“That’s not true,” Boris argues.

“Anyway, he was kind of a jerk,” Galahad says, catching Abercrombie looking again. He tilts his chin up to look back, then sighs.

‘All I Want for Christmas is You’ blared out from Hollister’s interior, heartfelt and yet still suggestive. It seems to bore into Galahad’s brain.

Dag links arms with Galahad and Boris, and leads them in the sort of good-natured goofing off that they can get away with if it draws in customers. A sort of horseplay do-si-do that at least serves to get Galahad’s mind off of the torturous Christmas music and Abercrombie’s model as well. 

-

Wayne calls him that evening, after texting him a bunch of photos of his two girls hanging up ornaments and Christmas stockings. 

“So, how’s your job, Gal?” Wayne asks him, after Galahad comments on how cute the pictures of his nieces are. 

“Strange,” Galahad admits. “I spend all day wearing tight clothes and leaning dramatically.”

“Does that even work?” Wayne wonders.

“I don’t understand it, but it seems to,” Galahad says. “Other stores are also doing it. Though the guy at Abercrombie is always showing up late and sneaking coffee on the job.”

Wayne laughs. “You should work _there_ next year.”

“God,” Galahad says. “I won’t be able to take the Christmas music.”

Wayne laughs at him. “I don’t suppose I can convince you that next year you should stay with us. The girls are excited, after all the best presents under the tree are from Uncle Gal every year.”

“I set myself up for greatness,” Galahad agrees. “I hope I didn’t go overboard.”

“Nah,” Wayne says. “And the couch becomes a bed. Come see us.”

“Maybe,” Galahad says. “I’m not sure what next year will look like, but maybe in early December?”

“I’ll start psyching the girls up now,” Wayne promises. “By next year they’ll have you dead to rights.”

“Alright, alright,” Galahad laughs. “I’ll start making plans.”

“What about this year? Did you meet anybody at work?” Wayne asks. 

“No,” Galahad laughs. “I like my co-workers well enough but it’s better not to look for romance in the workplace.”

“Says you!” Wayne says.

“It’s different in the army,” Galahad chuckles. “Besides, you like a girl who’ll give you orders.” 

“And you like a guy who’ll take ‘em,” Wayne says. “I get it.”

“Retail’s not really the place to look.”

“I guess not. I just keep hoping.”

“I guess I sort of met one person I don’t work with,” Galahad says, his thoughts slipping to his lunch the day before. Immediately, he regrets mentioning it at all - let alone in this context. He hadn’t meant it at all like Gawain had.

“Oh yeah?”

“He was a jerk,” Galahad backpedals. “I didn’t mean I met him like a prospect.”

“Mmhmm,” Wayne drawls, unconvinced. “Do you need me to come make the other kids be nice to you on the playground?”

“Thanks, big brother, but I can settle my own disputes.” 

“Have you tried challenging him to hopscotch? Or a dance-off?”

“I can’t dance.”

“He doesn’t know that. Maybe just ask him to dance, then. Good luck, little brother!”

-

The next day, Saturday, Galahad gets the drop on Abercrombie in the food court, waiting in line for the coffee he never seems to be without.

“You’re going to be late back to your post,” Galahad observes.

“They don’t really care,” Abercrombie says, tossing the mess of his hair out of his eyes and giving Galahad a lingering, dark eyed look. He has more clothes on today than yesterday. “I’ll do a better job if I stay caffeinated.”

“Do you pour vodka in it?” Galahad wonders. “Is that how I never see you flinch at the music?”

“No,” Abercrombie answers. “I try to drown it out with my thoughts.”

He lets his words tilt up into something extremely suggestive, without saying anything lewd or over the line - just all in his tone and inviting expression.

“Alright,” Galahad says. He wonders if trying to talk to this man again was a mistake. “Can I ask you why you came up to me at lunch the other day?” 

The mild, deep brown eyes gain an infuriating victorious look, his eyebrows raising upward a fractional amount.

“I just wanted to talk,” Abercrombie says, and then a small, genuine and _very_ attractive smile curls up at the corner of his mouth. “I figured I’d like to know more about the man I have to stare at all day. I wanted to see if any of it lined up with the story I invented for you.”

“What story?” Galahad wonders, curious in spite of himself.

“There are a few,” Abercrombie says. “Don’t you make up stories for strangers?”

Galahad shakes his head. They both order coffee - Abercrombie’s is a sugar-filled half-milk and whipped cream monstrosity. Galahad orders a much cheaper and more practical black coffee.

“How do you pass the time, then?” Abercrombie wonders, paying for both their coffees before Galahad can protest, and he decides to let it go.

“Thank you. I have papers to work on at home, I try to think about those,” Galahad explains as civilly as he can while they both find a table.

“You’re a student,” Abercrombie guesses, looking Galahad over again as if expecting a pocket protector and book bag to suddenly appear on his body. 

“Is that what you guessed?”

“I thought at first maybe a teacher,” Abercrombie says. “You had the same sort of distracted look my second grade teacher had all the time.”

“What changed your mind?” Galahad asks. A teacher was pretty benign, anyway. It was better than the sorts of daydreams he’d feared.

“I saw you taking a picture of your lunch and I thought maybe you were a food blogger,” Abercrombie says.

In spite of himself, Galahad laughs. “I’m glad you didn’t just assume I only did retail.”

“You don’t have the look,” Abercrombie says. “The live models are never people you’d assume worked there on a regular basis.”

“Is that in the Abercrombie handbook?” Galahad wonders, sipping his coffee.

“That’s a trade secret. Maybe I should change my guess to corporate espionage?”

“If I had that kind of power, I’d ban ‘I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas’ except for the Bing Crosby version. But that might be more exciting to think about if you need the entertainment than the truth.” 

“What do you study?”

“English Literature, Classical, with a focus on Arthurian legend,” Galahad says, waiting for judgment.

“A mouthful,” Abercrombie observes. “Do you enjoy it?”

Galahad is honestly surprised by the civility of the answer. Maybe the first effort had been a little clumsy, but now that Galahad holds the reins of the conversation, it’s easier.

He realizes his break is almost over and he’s really still only talking about himself. He sets down his cup and offers his hand over the table.

“I’m Galahad,” he says, and the other man’s expression changes in surprise.

His rough, cool fingers close around Galahad’s, shaking his hand with a strange smile.

“And you said ‘Arthurian’, right?” 

Galahad nods, aware of the press of the other man’s palm, the cold condensation from his drink getting warm between their palms.

“I’m Tristan,” he says, and Galahad can tell it’s not a joke, but he laughs at the coincidence, anyway.

-


	3. Chapter 3

Galahad accepts the offer when Tristan gives him his number, allowing some mixed feelings on the matter. He isn’t sure the intent, or if he wants to pursue it more than politely. But he does himself the favor of not writing off the option entirely.

It occupies his thoughts, churning over in them for the rest of the shift. The store is open late - the whole mall is - for the last minute rush in the weeks before Christmas. Galahad is glad he usually has most of his shopping done in September.

By ten, foot traffic has died down. The store is open until twelve.

“Why don’t you go home early today,” Lance suggest, leaning over the partition into the main window. He looks tired. “I know I wish I could. I have to be back to open the store at eight tomorrow.”

“Jeez,” Galahad says, climbing down out of the window display. “Is that legal? Don’t you have to have twelve hours between shifts?”

“Barely,” Lance admits. “I have Monday off, and I’m on salary. That puts my limit at eight between shifts, if they’re six hour shifts.”

It sounds grueling.

“Anyway,” Lance continues, as they head toward the changing room where Galahad will return to his own clothes, “I figure I’ll have to add hours in the rush next weekend, fair warning, so I’m going to try and save where I can this week.”

“Makes sense,” Galahad says, because it seems polite. The circles under Lance’s eyes are as dark as today’s grey cardigan.

Galahad’s phone is in his pants pocket. He checks it reflexively after he punches the time clock and finds his notifications are lit up - emails, text messages, the whole shebang.

Mostly, notifications of sales, how many shopping days until Christmas - only ten!

There’s a text from mom - _Muy Thais and a tropical sunset!_ \- with a picture of a mixed drink on a ship table, a rail, and the ocean and clear red sunset beyond it. Idyllic.

_Looks amazing_ he texts back. _Don’t drink + drive!_

The next, Galahad reeds in the sloppy, slush-covered parking lot on his way to the car.

G-Wayne:  
 **Christmas movie time!**

This is accompanied by an image of him, his wife, and their two daughters in warm PJ’s on the couch. They are all mugging for the camera, making the popular ‘selfie duck face’. 

Galahad smiles and fishes his keys out of his pocket. A snowflake falls on the screen, and when he wipes it off, it activates a bunch of apps. He sighs, and gets in his car, as the single flakes begin to join ranks into a proper New England snowstorm.

Inside the car he hesitates, then decides to go home before the roads get too bad. Without thinking about it, he turns on the radio - 

_-we wish you weren’t living with us, we wish you weren’t living with us, we_ wish _you weren’t living_ with us. _Now get out of town!_

-and then he clicks it off again and drives home in silence. He forgets to check his phone again until he’s plugging it in for the night, and then sees one more message from earlier.

Tristan(Abercrombie):  
 **I counted 4 times ‘Santa Baby’ played today.**

Galahad hesitates, then decides this is harmless. He’d seen Tristan leave at seven, replaced by some other brand ambassador in more clothes. He fires off an answer, figuring Tristan has probably gone to bed already. No pressure.

**It played two more times after you left. I put peak ‘Santa Baby’ hours at 6pm-10pm.**

Galahad stares at the screen for a minute, sees no ‘Tristan(Abercrombie) is typing’, and goes to bed.

-

In the morning, Galahad forgets all about it until after he’s had his coffee. The blinking light on his phone attracts his attention. He spoons Cheerios into his mouth and unlocks his phone.

Tristan (Abercrombie):  
 **Sure. After the kids are in bed an no sensitive ears will be injured by all that suggestive singing.  
Is Santa kink like daddy kink?**

Then, later - by about 20 minutes;

Tristan(Abercrombie):  
 **Are you working tomorrow?**

Galahad considers letting it go - he’ll be going in soon enough, anyway. But it sounds like the prelude to an invitation, and Galahad thinks it’ll be easier to say no over text if he wants to back out.

**Today? Yes. Ten to six. Will I see you?**

He hits send, then second-guesses himself. He hadn't really meant it to sound like he is desperate to see Tristan or excited to spend time with him. The phone buzzes in his hand.

Tristan(Abercrombie):  
 **I’m 9 to 5 today. Want to share break time?**

That’s - still pretty harmless. Galahad texts back an affirmative, and hopes he can make it work with his schedule.

He asks Lance about an early lunch after he gets changed and punched in.

“Did you forget your wheaties?” Lance asks, looking tired.

“I’m meeting someone,” Galahad admits, seeing no reason to hide the truth.

“Okay,” Lance says, with a chuckle. “No Tindr nonsense on company time, okay?”

“No, no,” Galahad says, waving his hands as if warding the suggestion off like a hex. “Just lunch.”

“If we’re not packed, I’ll get you at three for lunch,” Lance promises.

“Thanks!” Galahad says. “Are we outside today?”

“Until four when Boris and Dag leave,” Lance says, pointing at the crowd surrounding the pair standing on the porch facade. “Then you’re window-doggy.”

“What?” Galahad laughs.

Lance gestures out at the other two live models. “Ask Dag.”

They’re all three in business-casual with a bit of ‘Hollister flair’ today - button up shirts in pastel primary colors and vests and slacks. Galahad likes it quite a bit, pink shirt and all.

“Hey, Gal,” Boris greets, giving him a roguish, rugged smile.

“How’s it been this morning,” Galahad asks, joining the lineup. A few cell-phone flashes go off, and Galahad keeps his smile on his face.

“Well, you know,” Dag says. “Shopping, ogling, wearing strange clothes. The usual.”

“I might regret this,” Galahad says, “but what’s ‘window-doggy’?”

Immediately on-cue, as if the whole thing were scripted - or Galahad just said the secret word - Dag bursts into song.

“How much is that doggy in the window-?”

“-wuf wuf!” Boris puts in, roughly melodic.

“The one with the waggly tail?” Dag continues, as Galahad laughs. 

“Except no one comes to adopt us,” Boris says, clasping his hands together like a damsel in distress.

“They’re all scared of your wife,” Dag suggests. “Anybody who’d marry you is probably willing to fight over you like a scrap of meat.”

Boris scoffs. Galahad shakes his head and falls into line beside them, giving the surrounding crowd a winning smile and resigning himself to answering a dozen questions to the effect of ‘how many buttons are on your button-ups’.

-

Lance lets them all go to lunch at the same time.

“Don’t go far,” he says.

Galahad never does anyway, but he worries about the relentless teasing he’ll have to endure if his fellow employees catch him at lunch with Tristan. To his relief, they part ways with him and leave him to join Tristan with his coffee and sandwich.

“You seem to have fun over there,” Tristan says.

“Doesn’t Abercrombie get a group of models on weekends?” Galahad wonders.

“Guess not,” Tristan says. “We’re a ‘more serious’ brand.”

“You really reek by the way,” Galahad says. The smell of cologne is almost overpowering.

“I had to fold some shirts,” Tristan said. “Which meant I got sprayed with _Fierce_ when the shift manager went around.”

“They played ‘White Christmas’ more times than ‘All I Want for Christmas is You’ so far,” Galahad says, taking the level of retail bullshit in stride. It was almost that bad at Hollister.

“I heard only about 15 Eee-Dee-Emm songs on repeat,” Tristan admits. “I may never go clubbing again for fear of flashbacks.”

Galahad laughs. “I hope that short curated playlists are an endangered species.” 

“Targeted shopping experience,” Tristan says.

Galhad snorts, uncaring that it was undignified. He eats his lunch, worried about getting second break.

“So, I guessed you were a photographer after you came at my sandwich photo,” Galahad starts.

“Sorry,” Tristan says, adding, “You really did need a filter, though.”

“Probably,” Galahad says. “My readership of six isn’t too demanding at least.”

“I studied at RISD,” Tristan volunteers some of his history. “I freelance some, but I refuse to take pictures of children with Santa.”

“So what do you take pictures of?” Galahad asks, wondering if he’ll regret it.

“Architecture, mostly. Some portraits,” Tristan says. “Weddings, occasionally. I have a friend who does it full time and when he double-books a weekend he throws it my way.” 

Galahad thinks architectural photography sounds dull. Then again, most people found classical literature dull.

“Do you go home for the holidays?” Galahad wonders. “Where is home, anyway? I can’t place your accent.”

“Denmark,” Tristan says.

“Huh. Never would have guessed. I’m from northern California, but to get a respectable doctorate, I had to come east.”

“I don’t go home for the holidays,” Tristan says, going back to an earlier question. “My parents and I video-call.”

“I usually do,” Galahad says, finding the conversation somewhat meaningless but easy to hold. “My mom’s on a cruise this year, though.”

Tristan accepts this with a smile. “Christmas eve all alone, huh?”

“It’ll be a relief. I’m sure I’ll be here until the mall closes at five anyway, and then I have a paper to work on,” Galahad says.

“At least it stays closed all day on Christmas,” Tristan agrees, raising his cup of coffee in a mock toast.

“May retail never fully take our humanity from us,” Galahad toasts. They clink plastic cup rims, and drink.

“Do you have any plans after work?” Tristan asks, as he finishes the whipped-cream remains of his coffee. He arcs the cup perfectly into a nearby trash can. 

“Yeah. Go home, study, read six hundred pages of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle for context,” Galahad says, sighing. “Keep plugging away on my paper.” 

“Don’t want to go out and get a drink?” Tristan offers. “It’s Sunday and you’re on winter break - you should give yourself some time to relax.”

Despite everything else, Galahad feels compelled to go along. He _could_ use an outing rather than nothing but work and reports.

“What place did you have in mind?” Galahad asks.

Tristan smiles wolfishly, pleased. “I’ll text you the address.”


	4. Chapter 4

It’s not the sort of place that Galahad expects. His speculations had been certain it would be one of three things:

1\. A super swanky place that called itself a gastro-gallery or boutique.  
2\. A dingy biker bar full of men in leather, from which Tristan must be taking hair and beard trimming tips.  
3\. Ruby Tuesdays or some other equally cookie-cutter quirky establishment, which Tristan would only like ‘ironically’.

Instead, the pub they go to is quiet, but not unoccupied; has an appropriately fake Irish sounding name (Houlihan’s) and serves Galahad the best no-nonsense cheeseburger he’s had in a while.

Tristan drinks sensibly, and not to get trashed, Gal notes with some pleasure.

“So, you’re from Denmark?” Galahad tries making small talk, though they’re both eating. 

Tristan mostly finishes chewing and swallowing before he answers. 

“Yes, and I’m glad. Your public schools are garbage,” he says, with an unapologetic grin.

“I won’t argue that,” Galahad says. He seizes on the other implication of Tristan’s words. “So you’re not a citizen, yet? You said it like-”

“No, not yet,” Tristan says. “Maybe not ever. You said you were from California? Where?”

“Humboldt County,” Galahad admits, allowing his tone to make light of that. He’s used to the flippant attitude of most New Englanders toward those born on the West Coast.

“Where?” Tristan asks, and Galahad has to laugh.

“North of San Francisco, along the coast. Up by Eureka,” Galahad says. “I know there’s lots of glamorous stuff in California, but not in that part, so I don’t really miss it.”

They eat quietly together for a few moments until their drinks come.

“You have a ride home?” Gal asks, noting that Tristan is starting with hard liquor while Galahad decides to stick to beer.

“I live nearby,” Tristan assures him. It’s not too far from Galahad’s off-campus apartment, either. “And I have Uber.”

“How is that, anyway?”

“Better than walking. Not as good as your own car.”

This makes sense. 

“Do you come here often?” Galahad wonders, as he finishes his meal, pushing the plate across the bar - they’d forgone a table.

“Is that a pickup line?” Tristan asks, his tone on the border of teasing. He slides his dark gaze in Galahad’s direction over the rim of his glass, and Galahad notices his eyes are almost the same glinting and golden brown shade as the whiskey. 

His heart skips a beat. An unexpected interest coils in Galahad’s belly, and he looks away sharply, reaching for his drink.

“Just curiosity,” he says. “It’s a good burger.”

“Yes,” Tristan answers his question easily, without putting pressure on his own. “When I want to think.”

“Not when you want to drink?”

“When I want to think and drink,” Tristan allows. “So, often.”

They both accept a second round, floundering through the slowly breaking ice like ungainly penguins and waiting to fall through into whatever was beneath, or pass over to the barren, snowy cold landscape on the other side.

Backwards was no longer possible. The fuzzy second-glass sensation made it easier to ignore the drop. To be bold.

“Do you have a ride home?” Tristan asks, after a look at Galahad’s second empty pint glass.

He does - the subway will get him there, or near enough to walk. It’s how he gets to work, though he has to take his car to school. However, he decides that there’s a funnier answer.

“Yours is nearby,” he says, way more brazenly than he really feels. 

Tristan gives Galahad a sharp look, then chuckles.

“That was a pickup line,” he decides.

Galahad starts his third beer, feeling vulnerable now that he’s played his hand and has no idea what Tristan’s cards contain. He doesn’t like it, the feeling of exposure.

“Why, isn’t that why you asked me here?” Galahad grips his drink tightly, drinking as fast as he dares.

“I was going to ask for a shoot,” Tristan says. “You know, like photos. I figured if that was all you wanted, that was okay, at least my foot was in the door.”

“And if I said no?” Galahad asks - at this point in his drunken belligerence, it seems important to ask. 

Tristan shrugs. “Worth a shot. Some shots miss.”

He says it with such ease and confidence that Galahad feels disarmed. Tristan’s eyes are doing that _thing_ again, where they’re being beautiful. 

He looks earnestly at Galahad. “Has my shot missed?”

Galahad swears he can feel ‘it’ thump into center mass in his chest.

“No,” he says, alcohol making an honest man out of him.

Tristan gives him a grin. “Well, that’s good. We have to look at each other too much to leave things awkward.”

Galahad supposes that’s right, but he doubts he’d have let it matter much anyway. 

“I’m only on the payroll for 8 more days,” he says. “After Christmas, my hours go to someone who can process returns and exchanges.”

“Means we have a free New Years,” Tristan says. “But we don’t really have to talk about work-”

Just as Tristan starts to change the subject, ‘White Christmas’ starts pouring over the sound system in the bar - decidedly out of place with the previous unremarkable playlist.

They both look at each other and come to a mutual agreement. Tristan finishes his drink and they pay the tab, both of them sliding back from the bar. Galahad stops at the coat-check and gets his heavy wool jacket, where Tristan only buttons up the corded-knit sweater he’s been wearing.

Outside, the air is cutting-cold, and Galahad feels it quickly penetrate his alcohol warmth as he falls into step beside Tristan.

“So what kind of photos are we talking about by the way?” Galahad figures he should ask before he agrees to let an artist take pictures of his genitals or something.

“Portraits,” Tristan says. “Just the regular kind. I need a few for my portfolio that aren’t ten year old school assignments, and I’d prefer if they weren’t wedding portraits.”

His tone is so disparaging that Galahad has to chuckle a little. “Should I ask why not?”

“A wedding portrait is only baby steps of work. Only part of the credit for presenting the subject is mine,” Tristan explains. Despite the cold, he looks comfortable with his hands just tucked into his pockets. His hair is in a sloppy braid between his shoulders, streaked brown and silver in a way that Galahad bets is achieved in a salon.

“You’ve already got a hairdresser and a makeup artist that have put in work to make sure the bride looks amazing as she possibly can,” Tristan continues. “The picture just commemorates that.”

“So what’s a portrait if not a commemoration of something?” Galahad accepts the bait.

“A skilled portrait artist can do two things,” Tristan says. “Show the world something inside of his subject, and show the subject something he’s never known or seen about himself.”

“Huh,” Galahad says, intrigued in spite of himself.

They stop in front of an old Victorian style house that’s been broken up into apartments. Like the usual New England level of anachronism, it sits between a square brick laundromat and a raised ranch style house that seems to have been converted into a real estate office. 

“So what’s the secret for all that?” Galahad asks, as Tristan unlocks the door.

Tristan gives him a winning grin. “Aim for the middle.”

Then, they’re inside.

-

If Galahad hadn’t already known that Tristan was an artist before he walked in, the space would leave him without question.

Tristan’s apartment is messy, in the manner typical of every art student he’s ever made the acquaintance of. It has the same jar with a loose collection of change and keys in the entryway. Galahad also sees a few packs of gum and some real film canisters, though it’s impossible to tell if they’re full or empty.

The main living area has a variety of bachelor furniture, and a door leading off one side with a makeshift ‘DO NOT ENTER’ sign.

“Is it a health hazard?” Gal asks, jerking his thumb at the sign.

“Darkroom,” Tristan says. “One time the custodian came in to fix a window and destroyed a whole roll of project shots.”

“You still use film?”

“Not all the time,” Tristan says. “But yes, now and again something calls for film, and I prefer to do my own development. CVS isn’t very good at it.”

“I can imagine,” Galahad says, though he can’t even remember the last time he’d had to develop film.”

“There’s nothing in there now anyway, the sign’s just in case,” Tristan says. “It’s not very exciting, but you can have a look if you’d like.”

Galahad cracks the door politely and looks inside - he sees a dimly red-lit space. There are several bins lined up and labeled with descriptions of the developer chemicals within.

Not very exciting. He closes the door again.

“You’re right,” he tells Tristan. 

Tristan shrugs, in an ‘I-warned-you’ manner and fishes two beers with fancy labels out of his fridge, popping both open on a red Coke bottle opener bolted to one side of his counter.

“So, is it a yes?” Tristan asks as Galahad takes his first sip of beer.

Galahad has to think about what Tristan is talking about. “Just to be clear, I get to keep my clothes on, right?”

“For the pictures, yes. For anything else? That’s up to you,” Tristan says. “And you can think about it for a few days. I don’t have the equipment handy to do it today.”

“Equipment? What do you need besides a camera?” Galahad wonders, in genuine curiosity. Tristan gestures at the couch, and they both sit down, relaxing into the well-worn and comfortable cushions.

“Lights, mostly. Most of photography is directing light. Anyway, I’ve said a lot about what I do,” Tristan says, gesturing to Galahad.”You’re a student, right? Tell me about that.”

“I’m struggling with a report on Chaucer and Arthur,” Galahad admits, though he’s not sure why it’s the first thing he brings up. 

“Struggling?” Tristan prompts, and Galahad can’t tell if he’s feigning interest to be polite or genuine.

“There’s only one real reference to Arthur in the Canterbury tales,” Galahad says, leaning back against the couch. He feels at ease - even though Tristan’s got eyes that miss nothing, and Galahad is feeling comfortably buzzed. He feels easy and relaxed, like there’s no reason to be on his guard. “The Wife of Bath’s tale. And I’m sure that every possible angle of analysis has already been covered.”

“So you’re worried about originality?” Tristan asked, assuming his role as the straight man of the conversation without batting an eye, even though he has no reason beyond being polite. Galahad likes him better the more he gets to know him.

“At least being original enough that my paper won’t be tossed unread with a passing grade,” Galahad says. 

Tristan breaks character to chuckle, and it does things in Galahad’s belly, the way his eyes crumple and warm, a flash of sharp teeth revealed as he laughs.

“You don’t want to pass?”

“I don’t want to _just_ pass,” Galahad says. “I want a good grade. A perfect grade, if possible.”

Tristan considers this. “Start from the back.”

“What?” Galahad finds the advice nonsensical.

Tristan shrugs. “People show the front of things in photos. It’s instinctive. The back is rarely presented, and it fascinates people if you can frame it right. Start from the back.”

It hits Galahad’s thoughts like a bolo to the legs, leaving him stumbling over what the ‘front’ and ‘back’ of a story should be. Logically, the start and end. But maybe - the back was behind the words? What had inspired them in the first place? 

It wasn’t really like he could _ask_ Chaucer. That didn’t mean it wasn’t good advice.

“I never thought about that,” Galahad says. “I mean it’s easier with a physical object.”

“You’d think so,” Tristan says, lounging back with his eyes on Galahad like a savvy hunter who has just lured his prize in.

Galahad leans forward over his reclining body - if he hasn’t just been invited to pursue a kiss, he’s inviting himself.

“Would I be right?” Galahad asks.

Tristan reaches up and curls his hand around the back of Galahad’s neck, pulling their mouths together for a long, lazy kiss. It sears through Galahad slowly, sweetly. Tristan makes no effort to show off, but he’s a good kisser. Not pushy, like some of Galahad’s previous explorations. Instead, he kisses like he could do it all night and he has nowhere else to be. Galahad melts down against his chest, likes the way Tristan’s hands run through his hair until the style comes loose in his fingers.

He slips deep in those few instants and knows somehow that he’s utterly in control and it’s more intoxicating than even the beer.

In the end, he stays the night, stripping to his shirt sleeves and going no further than such deep kisses before Tristan beds him down on the couch with pillows and blankets and retreats to his room for sleep.

They’re the sort of kisses, he feels, that could sustain him for a very long while.

-


	5. Chapter 5

The next week seems to fly, to drift by in a haze of Pre-Christmas retail frenzy, as Galahad works his report. 

From the back. His worry had been that everything he could say would have already been said - but the he thought about the things that Scholars didn’t say about their precious Chaucer. The parts that they tried to gloss over or justify.

He discarded his original paper and began again with a new theme: Anti-Feminist Themes in Chaucer. Then, the paper flew.

“Your head’s in the clouds,” Lance says, giving Galahad a start as he catches himself doing far more of a ‘thinker’ pose than is really brand acceptable. 

Galahad straightens up. He’s window-doggy today, and he can see Tristan lounging across the promenade. He’s been sneaking sips of his mocha-latte between groups of customers. This late in the season, very few people are having a good time shopping.

These are the last minute, deal dabblers, the ‘I forgot cousin Joey’ list checkers, the ‘just one last thing to make it perfect’ sort. They aren’t really paying attention to the window displays.

Tomorrow, he realizes with a start, is Christmas Eve. He has no last minute shopping to do - his gifts for Wayne and his family are long since delivered. He’d contributed to his mom’s cruise fund as his gift to her this year. As for Tristan - well, he hasn’t considered it. Then again, the relationship is too new for the shackles of physical objects, or so Galahad feels. 

Then, he realizes as Tristan rakes him with his gaze from across the mall, that he’s wearing Galahad’s shirt from the last time he’d spent the night. A casual T-shirt, but Hollister branded.

He has to stifle a laugh.

On break, he meets up with Tristan and sits at hi stable under his amused gaze.

“You’re going to get fired,” Galahad says.

“This close to the holiday? I doubt it,” Tristan says.

“Lance asked me to stay until close tonight,” Galahad says, tucking into his sandwich to fortify himself for the long shift. “I think I’ll have to fold shirts and jeans after my regular shift.”

“Lots of call-ins this season. Temp workers are teenagers with human needs and families after all,” Tristan observes. “Does that mean you aren’t coming over?”

“I want to finish my report tonight,” Galahad says. “That will leave me only the reading to do before the end of break.”

Tristan looks understanding, but Galahad can sense his disappointment.

“How about tomorrow, if you don’t have any plans already?” he asks.

“I was planning to order Chinese take-out and watch ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’,” Tristan reveals.

“I’ll bring the beer,” Galahad offers.

“The true Father Christmas,” Tristan says, grateful, as he salutes Galahad with his second latte of the day. “Are you free when the mall closes?”

“Yes. I can give you - and the beer - a ride home after work if that helps.”

“It’s a date,” Tristan says. “I have the photo gear as well, so we can take some Christmas photos.”

“Yuck,” Galahad says. “I don’t own a sweater ugly enough.”

“We’ll improvise,” Tristan promises.

-

The next morning Wayne calls him before work and it actually surprises Galahad when he wishes him a Merry Christmas. He has a brief moment of worry, like Scrooge waking up to the concern that he’s missed his chance for redemption.

Then he realizes it’s still the 24th.

“Merry Christmas,” he repeats. “How are the kids?”

“Up already,” Wayne says. “All excited about Santa, and did Santa get their letter, and can we put the cookies out for Santa. You know, like we were, as kids. If you’d like, after work I can get them on video chat for you.”

“Ah, I have plans,” Galahad admits, sheepishly. “I’m sorry. How about tomorrow evening?”

“Plans? Your blue-plate special?” Wayne prompts. “We can work around that.”

“No, you’ll be happy to hear it’s real plans,” Galahad says. “But I’ll have to tell you about it later. I have to get a shower in before work. I was up until two this morning finishing a paper.”

“Yes, you’d better make yourself beautiful,” Wayne laughs. “But know you’re leaving me in suspense!”

“I’ll text you on my fifteen,” Galahad says. “You have kids to keep busy until then.”

“Merry Christmas, little brother,” Wayne says.

“Merry Christmas, asshole,” Galahad says, traditionally. It’s an old family in-joke with roots in their childhood. 

He drinks his coffee in the shower, finishing it as quickly as he washes his hair and gets ready for the day.

He almost forgets to load the beer in the car but catches it and puts it under a blanket in the trunk so no one is tempted to break into his car.

“Merry Christmas,” Lance greets as Galahad punches in. The atmosphere in the store feels lighter today, more relaxed. Lance is wearing a cranberry red cardigan today instead of his usual grey.

Festive.

Galahad answers in kind, then asks. “What’s on the docket today?”

“Wear something nice and this Santa hat,” Lance says, producing one of the mass-market hats made out of red velvet and white faux-fur. It has a white seagull shape embroidered on the red part. “Pick what you want off the racks. Maybe go a little festive.”

Galahad pulls a few things off the rack and gets dressed in the fitting room, joining Boris and Dag out front.

“The mall music is turned down today,” Galahad observes.

Dag has his hat on backwards and Galahad feels lucky that Boris is wearing more than _just_ the hat.

“Just you wait,” Boris says. “It’s not out of mercy.” 

Galahad isn’t sure why that makes him so wary, but he doesn’t like the sound of it. Neither of his companions are forthcoming, so he settles in to greet the crowds brightly, hoping to bring their spirits up. He supposes if he had to shop today for whatever reason he’d feel pretty tired and worn down, too.

“Well, Merry Christmas fellas. What are your plans now that our holiday jobs are obsolete?” Galahad asks, giving a smile and a nod to a woman who enters the store.

“Back to my old exciting life,” Boris says. “Installing air conditioning units.”

“Is there a lot of call for that in New England?” Galahad wonders.

“More than enough in the summer,” Boris says, shrugging. “I do repairs, too.”

“I’m a farrier,” Dag says, flexing one beefy arm. “Also picks up when people are looking at their horses, but I had an emergency shoeing yesterday. Good cash.”

“What about you?” Boris prompts.

“Just back to school,” Galahad says. “But with slightly less shallow pockets.”

“I should do this again next year,” Dag says.

“It only seems that way ‘cause you’re not in the middle of it,” Boris says. “I thought for sure that the fourth time I heard ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ in one day I’d start chewing on the decorative bushes.”

“Speaking of,” Dag says, then stops.

Galahad realizes he can hear a distant Christmas carol - not the usual Muzak fare. ‘Here We Come a Wassailing’, he thinks. A group of carolers in ridiculous period costumes from some idealized version of a Charles Dickens world appear, wandering along the mall promenade and singing at the top of their lungs.

“Oh no,” Galahad says, his gut sinking.

“All day,” Boris agrees.

“Big smile, boys,” Lance calls from inside the store. Galahad hears him turn up the curated Hollister playlist a little. “Frowning’s not pretty!”


	6. Chapter 6

Tristan hasn’t decorated his apartment, but he has a set of LED lights that seem to be a permanent fixture wrapped artistically around the curtain rods and strewn over the back of the breakfast bar.

The faint white glow seems perfectly, beautifully atmospheric, and it’s the only light Tristan turns on as they enter, Galahad juggling a dozen-pack of Belgian beer with intimidating ABV numbers. It _is_ Christmas after all.

“Are they cold enough to drink?” Tristan wonders as Galahad pushes things around in the fridge to make a place for the beer. 

“Probably,” Galahad says, bracing the box up on his knee to rip one flap open and offer Tristan the first pick.

“I’m glad you didn’t bring American beer,” Tristan says, wrapping strong fingers around one of the brown bottle necks and pulling it free of the box. 

“I’m glad you don’t like it either,” Galahad says. “Our relationship would be over. All that scandal for nothing.”

“Scandal?” Tristan wonders, wedging his beer cap under the bottle opener and popping it off. 

“You know, the sordid rivalry of competing brands,” Galahad says, picking a promising bottle out of the box and winging the fridge door closed experimentally. It latches. _Victory._

“Competing?” Tristan asks, and Galahad expects - and intercepts - a joke about it. 

“I know, you’re hardly a match for my good looks. Barely a contest,” he jokes, lifting his beer with a salute.

Tristan laughs, showing his sharp teeth and clinks their bottles together.

“Abercrombie owns Hollister,” he says.

“What?” Galahad says, laughing at his joke.

Tristan shrugs. “It’s true.”

Galahad googles it as Tristan gets the TV set up, and finds it to be true, and he laughs, mind briefly blown.

“So why all the posturing?” he wonders. “Why two huge facades across the mall from each other and live models wearing as little clothing as possible?”

Tristan shrugs. “People looked.”

It’s a simple answers, but it’s the truth, and he never would have met Tristan without the extreme levels of pretentious retail warfare. As new as it is between them, Galahad knows himself well enough to be grateful for that.

Later, with the movie going unwatched, Galahad can feel the warmth of Tristan’s body through his thin undershirt, the way his strength - so often on display - becomes real and tangible under Galahad’s roaming fingers. Their mouths share the taste of beer and breath, a hot, sweet slide that seizes a fist in Galahad’s stomach and pulls down toward his cock.

It’s impossible after all this time rubbing on each other not to be hard. Galahad can feel the bulge in Tristan’s pants, trapped against his thigh by jeans that have a high enough spandex content to clearly outline Tristan’s impressive girth rather than crush it to death like Galahad’s regular cotton jeans seem to be doing to him.

When Tristan reaches for his zipper - as if reading Galahad’s mind and sensing the burning desire for relief, at least from the _pressure_ \- Galahad feels compelled to admit, awkwardly, “I haven’t ever...”

Tristan stops the motion, as patient as if they have years to figure this out. Galahad sits up a little, wondering how _he’s_ impatient while Tristan looks like he’d be happy to kiss Galahad all night and nothing else.

“A pure knight,” Tristan says, grinning infuriatingly. “Like your namesake.”

“Shut up,” Galahad growls, feeling the heat and red rushing to his face. “It’s nothing to do with that.”

Tristan’s eyes light up, delighted. He sits up, too, and pulls Galahad’s mouth against his own, briefly, asking at his lips; “A dark secret?”

“The _darkest_ secret,” Galahad says, dry.

“Sounds great,” Tristan says, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back in an expectant attitude, clearly waiting to be entrusted with Galahad’s secret. 

“I didn’t think dating was as important as school,” Galahad says, putting his hands on his hips and shifting to try and get some of the uncomfortable pressure off his dick. He wishes he’d let Tristan unzip his pants _before_ explaining his virginity.

Tristan’s smile turns wolfish. “It isn’t. I mean, who minds being alone and untouched forever so long as they’re _educated_ -”

“Shut up,” Galahad barks, reaching down to get his hand over Tristan’s cock through his pants. “I just thought you should know.” 

“I don’t mind,” Tristan says, “and I don’t mind if we don’t got any further, either.”

“I mind,” Galahad says.

“Then we’ll go at a sane pace,” Tristan says, reaching for him again.

Galahad covers Tristan’s hand with his own and guides it to his zipper instantly. “ _My_ sanity depends on getting these pants off before my dick warps.”

Tristan laughs, and works the button with a tug that drags Galahad over his thighs for delicious friction before he eases the pants over Galahad’s hips. His cock springs free, bulging the forgiving fabric of his designer underwear out eagerly, and he sighs at the relief from all that pinching pressure.

“How far do you-” Tristan begins, and Galahad grabs him by the wrist and puts his hand over his cock, rocking his hips into it, enjoying the friction and heat of his palm through his underwear.

“Get the hint?” Galahad demands.

“Yes,” Tristan says, arching his own hips up a little. “But I’m curious what would happen if I asked you to spell it out for me?”

“Get naked,” Galahad growls.

“Alright,” Tristan agrees, and everything descends into close-proximity chaos, as Galahad works on peeling Tristan’s close-fitting pants off while Tristan pulls Galahad’s shirt over his head.

Later, Galahad has lost track of the movie; it’s all quiet and occasional poignant music, an interesting soundtrack for the first blowjob he’s ever gotten.

Tristan is good at it, taking his time with Galahad’s cock like he had with kissing; like he wanted to get to know every inch of Galahad intimately.

He’s aware of his own gasping and moaning; that every new angle Tristan’s tongue finds to swipe against the head of his cock wrenches a new, startled-sounding noise out of him. His skin feels electric cold, and excitement-endorphins have flooded his bloodstream, leaving him laid open.

There’s something deeply erotic in watching the pile of Tristan’s messy hair bob with the top of his head; the soft brush of one of his braids against the inside of Galahad’s thigh.

Release is a well pooling up inside Galahad, getting deeper and sending ripples outward, even though he knows Tristan is still only teasing. He’s never been this patient with himself when he’d bothered jacking off.

It feels sinful and luxurious and still burns through his bloodstream like an addictive ache. Tristan presses the rough flat of his tongue over the head of Galahad’s cock and works it in short lapping motions that leave Galahad gasping a warning as his slow climb to orgasm turns into a plummet. 

“Tristan-!” he gasps, but it’s too late and Galahad feels it rush out of him, his belly contracting and muscles first going tight then releasing. Tristan strokes him through it, his chest spattered with Galahad’s cum, fingers slick with it.

He sits back on his heels, and when Galahad opens his eyes, Tristan is licking the remains off his fingers. A deep twinge of lust plunges through Galahad’s tired body.

He reaches for Tristan, pulling him up halfway onto the couch and reaching up to get his hand onto Tristan’s erection, cradling the weighty curve of his cock against his palm and enjoying the way he sighs and his muscles relax into it.

“So tell me,” Galahad says, feeling the smear of his release against his own chest as they lean together. “Were any of the stories you told yourself anything like this?”

“My little secret,” Tristan groans, as he thrusts into Galahad’s grip.

Galahad supposes he’ll get the answer some other time.

-

In the morning, Galahad’s phone starts ringing somewhere in the apartment, and he has to unearth himself from a pile of rumpled blankets and discarded clothes to answer it, obeying its summons.

He accepts the call thoughtlessly, seeing Gawain’s name on the screen and needing no further information before his first cup of coffee. 

Wayne’s face fills the screen, and too late, Galahad realizes he’s just accepted a video call.

“Merry Christmas!” Wane (and his whole family) greet, and Galahad has a brief moment of panic until he realizes he’d at least put on his undershirt again before crawling into Tristan’s bed.

He can see Wayne’s expression changing, and the girls start giggling - probably at the state of his hair, though they’re too young to really know what it means for it to look so debauched. 

“Merry Christmas!” he soldiers on, feeling Tristan stirring awake beside him.

“Whoa, okay,” Wayne says, stifling a laugh as Galahad quickly changes the angle of his camera to show only him. “Tell your uncle thank you and we’ll try back in ten minutes.”

Beside him, Tristan makes a low grumble of protest, moving in earnest for the other edge of the bed now as the girls chorus ‘thank you!’ while holding up the gifts Galahad sent like trophies. Galahad’s heart warms up long enough from it’s mortification that he can answer them with a smile.

“You’re welcome girls,” Galahad says. “Did Santa treat you well?”

He hears what he thinks is the bathroom door close, and knows he’ll have to explain himself to Tristan in a few minutes.

“Yes,” Wayne says, as they both nod adorably. “Why don’t you go get a cup of coffee, Gal, and then you and I can have a grown up chat.”

“Yes,” Galahad says, guessing it’s really out of the bag now. “I’m lucky Mom didn’t call first.” 

“Yeah,” Wayne says. “Put some clothes on and brush your hair, you punk.”

When the call ends, Galahad hears the telltale click of a camera shutter, and turns to find Tristan leaning on the edge of the bed with some kind of fancy digital camera, grinning at him over the top of it. He still looks just as debauched.

“My brother,” Galahad explains, leaning over for a kiss.

“It’s too early for in-laws,” Tristan says, though whether he means ‘in the relationship’ or in the day, he’s right on both counts. “What will you tell them?” 

“That it was a Christmas miracle,” Galahad says. “Immaculate conception. The whole nine yards.”

Tristan snorts. “I’ll make coffee.”

Galahad is pulling on a pair of Tristan’s sweatpants when over the sound of the percolator he can hear Tristan humming (slightly off-tune) ‘All I Want for Christmas is You’.

-

THE END.

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to @MayGlenn for their trusty help on the subject of Galahad's schoolwork & Major.


End file.
